The Body Project
by EccentricSpock
Summary: A series of Kirk/Spock one-shots relating to anatomy. Spirk/Kock/Spirk Star Trek. In no numerical order, some raunchy, some not.
1. Eyes

If this were a movie, this is where the camera would pan out, backwards, out through the view screen. It was a perfect happy ending to a well executed, though somewhat unnecessarily dramatic (people who could control your mind from ten feet away had a tendency to cause this, he'd noticed), mission. Jim was comfortable, with Bones behind him, Sulu and Chekov chirping back and forth about thrusters and directions. Scotty chimed over the Com that the damage to the Matter-Anti-Matter chambers was minor, and phazer one would be back up-to-snuff in no time.

"Uhura," Jim leaned back in his hair, tilting his head to see her around a largely in-the-way Bones. "Contact Starfleet, infor—"  
"Already done," She looked over her shoulder at him. She offered a smile, a small one, but it was genuine. He smiled back, before looking back at the view screen. Six months in, life was going much smoother. Despite their constant barrage of menial missions. Which, in Jim's own experienced, seemed more like intergalactic errands than super space exploration—except for the times they got attacked, possessed, diseased, stuck, or some other overly excessive unnecessary reaction from either a planet or its people; which was odd, because, as far as he'd noticed, this shit never happened to anyone else in the fleet. But, he was in no way complaining, because the always changing scenarios kept him largely on his feet.

There was a lull in activity after a stressful mission. Bones began to talk to Jim about his increasingly pale complexion ('Are you sleeping?' 'When I can.' 'When I can is not enough.') and Jim was blatantly ignoring him, more in favor of seeming fixated on the space shooting by just in front of him. "Warp Six."  
"Aye, Captain," Sulu nodded, pushing a lever.

He bit his nail, narrowing his eyes at the screen. They were still there, the eyes on him. In most cases he was used to it, but not from the particular direction he felt them staring.

Jim had always had a thing for being sexually psychic, when it came to someone making 'moony-eyes' as Bones fondly referred to it. It was like his own personal super power. And his radar was going berserk from behind and right of him—a general direction recognized as 'science station' direction. He swiveled abruptly in his seat.

Spock had his back to him.

Hm. He'd never been wrong before.  
"—And you're erratic behavior only makes me worry even more, Jim. Jim?"  
"Mm?"  
"Are you listening to me? Why am I even asking, you never listen to me." Jim looked up at a disgruntled companion.  
"You sound like my mother."  
Bones waved his hands near his head, before walking off the back of the raised Captain's platform and headed towards the turbo lift. "If you die, you know where to find me."  
"I find it quite improbable he will be in need of your medical assistance, Doctor, if the Captain finds himself deceased."

Bones looked at Spock, who looked up with innocent, speculative eyes. He gave him a look right back, before instructing the doors shut and he vanished down the shoot. Spock looked back to his station.

"Who knows, perhaps I may be more extraordinary a man than you think."

"It is impossible for someone who is dead, Captain, to maneuver around to find assistance. Death can not be cured, merely postponed while the subject is still living."

"Maybe I'd become a zombie." Spock turned to look at him, and Jim grinned. Spock just arched a delicate brow. "I mean I'm damn near awesome enough that by pure awesome alone I could survive."

"One can not 'survive' death. Death is concrete and unchangeable."

"Concrete cracks." For all he was worth, Jim knew that had stumped his first officer by the way his brows barely moved inward towards each other.

"I did not imply the paving substan—"  
"I know." Jim waved a hand, turning is chair back to face the view screen. "I know, Spock."

"Captain, Incoming hail from Starfleet. A request for another mission."  
"You mean they need me to run another errand. All right, connect them to the screen." He leaned back in his chair, crossing his knees. Even as the informant appeared and Jim put on his most charming smile, he could still feel the lingering of Spock's gaze on the back of his head.

His smile reached its maximum—He was never wrong.


	2. Hair

It was an incredibly strange realization, Jim thought; out of the blue, unprovoked. He hadn't even been thinking about the subject, but it had come up, tacked itself to his mental cork board, and was now flailing around in his thoughts like a pinned animal (which proved to be incredibly distracting).

He'd noticed it before, or so he told himself, but never got around to asking. But here he was again, and it was gnawing at him to the point he wasn't even listening to the older Spock talking anymore. In fact, he'd probably been to preoccupied with his current train of thought to have taken in the last half hour of information about Vulcan II. This proved even more so, when he and a large, metallic drill's paneled side made quite a friendly meeting of face-on-Titanium Alloy. He guessed it was rather comical, hearing a dull 'thung' and metal thrumming, followed by a short string of curses and a body hitting the sand. Scotty found it absolutely hilarious, but he was the only appreciative audience, as his other three companions were Spock, Other Spock (Oldy Spock?) and Bones—the latter of which was already getting out something, probably a hypo, and Jim really didn't want to be on this end of a needle. He waved his hand and got up. "Don't even, Bones."

"You seem distracted, Captain." Translation: You ran into a twenty foot drill—good job.

"Yeah, well, thank you for your input, Spock." Jim rubbed his forehead, eyeing Bones' hands warily. "I was thinking."  
"May I inquire as to what has so consumed your attention that you were unable to access your predetermined trajectory would cause you and an obstacle to meet?" Translation: What made you run face-first into a twenty foot drill?

"Your hair." The words flew out of his mouth before he could stop it. Scotty was almost in tears now, and was getting a very warily look from Oldy Spock, or, well, a blank look with a disapproving brow, before his attention two was brought to Jim. "Er, I mean like. How it's cut."

Spock unconsciously brought a hand to smooth the front down. "You were studying my decided hair style."

"Actually, it's like all you guys decided on one hair style." He motioned at him, then Oldy Spock, then around them to some of the colonists who were out for the day's…errands? Did Vulcans do errands? "Everyone's got the same 'do. How'd you all manage that?"

The Spocks looked at each other, then each others hair. Oldy Spock looked back at Jim and, if his eyes weren't as good as they were he would of missed it, his own Spock looked /up/ for a moment as if to see his own hair, looked confused at himself, before looking at Jim neutrally all in the span of about half a second.

"It was not a planned endeavor."

"It is a practical length. Easy and simple to maintain, removed from our eyes, and lifted away from our necks to remove the variable of unwanted sensation."  
"Ah," Bones nodded. "I thought your mother just got tired of hearing your nonsense one day and shoved a bowl on your hair, and you liked the style."  
"My mother has never placed an eating surface on my head for any reason," They both responded, before looking at each other, then back to Jim.

"Now that your inquire is addressed, are your thoughts clear enough for our tour to be returned to, or shall we assign to you a guide to assure you do not come in contact with any more obstacles?" There was a warmness in the older Spock's eyes Jim just couldn't figure out. But, he liked it, and it was usually directed at him—and no one else seemed to notice. He smiled at the man.

"Nah, we're good. So, where are we again?"  
"We are near the courtyard of the newly established learning center…" The elder Spock began his speech again, and the two Vulcans fell into step with one another, followed by a still chortling Engineer and a disgruntled Doctor. Jim fell a little behind, smiling quietly to himself. He blocked out the speech again, in favor of his focus being fully on his own first officer.

Who continually seemed to touch his hair unconsciously, and his ears seemed to turn a bit darker green every time.


	3. Ears

It wasn't unusual, he decided. Something that happened so often without fail was not relatable to chance variables. Therefore, he should cease being surprised every time it happened.

But, for some unknown reason, it did always, every time, somewhat surprise him.

"You'll need to wear this—to cover your ears."

"Put this on, it'll hide your ears."

"You need to hide your ears, Spock."

"They don't like Vulcans? Hm, but I need Mr. Spock to accompany—good idea, here Spock. Hide your ears."

"We're in another time period where aliens don't exist? Here Spock, put on this knit cap, it'll hide your ears."

Where his ears so offensive?

The edges of his mouth twitched downward for only a moment, eyes unseeing as he scanned the same line of text for the second time. He lifted his eyes away to the control panel of buttons above his computer screen, tilting his head.

In all actuality, would not a being who found Vulcan's unfavorable be able to identify him as such, without the assistance of his external physiological differences from the majority (entirety of envelopment of a subject into a category was illogical, for every 'fact' as one contradiction and thus exactness of a theory was questionable, though accepted) of the crew? For one variable, most of the crewmen aboard the enterprise had blood that was hemoglobin based, causing it's red hue and pink tint to their complexion. His blood was quite obviously green and, despite the Captain's constant inference to Spock completing some kind of religious holiday representation among his peers (Christmas Baubles, Jim often said directly), most would find this difference obvious enough to detect from some distance away, if Spock found himself besides a human. Another variant in him from the crew was his manor of speech. His speech patterns compared to a human's natural speech patterns were vastly different to anyone with a trained ear. His eating habits were different, his sleep cycles were (drastically) different, as well as his physical regime and need for meditation. He was entirely disconnected in his external physiology from his comrades.

That thought caused him pause, and he tilted his head to one side. Comrades. How strange. Comrades were most often friends, people who's company one enjoys as well as one's company is reciprocally enjoyed. Friends. Were they friends?

If they were friends, why would they want to hide only one part of his physiology from potentially uninviting species?

Not that it hadn't worked so far.

Lost in his thoughts, Spock did not notice the entire bridge had turned to stare at him. He very nearly jumped when a warm hand (which was odd, since he had the highest natural body temperature on the ship) clapped him on the shoulder. He looked up, meeting the smiling blue eyes of his Captain.

"Captain?"  
"Welcome back, Mr. Spock."  
"I was unaware I had gone anywhere."

"You were off in la-la land."  
"…" He almost inquired, but Jim held his hand up.

"Figure of speech. I've been calling your name for about five minutes now. You looked frozen in a staring contest with the knobs on the wall." Spock blinked slowly, tilting his head.

"My apologies, Captain. It seems my thoughts have gotten away from me."

Someone unnamed mumbled something akin to 'shocker, he was thinking;' but no mind was paid to it.

"May I know what about?"

"Perhaps that would also make clear my own curiosity. When we travel to a planet that finds a Vulcan presence unfavorable, you insist I hide the pointed edges of my ears. However, much more of my external physiology, as well as speech patterns, cause me to wonder how to think this alone will hide my heritage from another species." It was Jim's turn to blink, then smile.

"It's worked, hasn't it?"  
"Undoubtedly, but my question still remains."

They stared at each other a moment, before Kirk unexpectedly leaned down and very close to Spock's ear he was almost kissing it.

"Not everyone is as observant as you are, Mr. Spock," Jim whispered. Spock blinked slowly again, before going rigid. A pair of fingers traced along the lobe of his ear, then up to the point. "Plus. I like your ears…" Then the hand was gone. "We don't want anyone lopping them off for being the wrong shape." He stood again and smiled brightly, before returning to his chair. "Now, Mr. Spock. Can I know what your latest readings have to offer?"

Spock was grateful to bend back over his computer to hide the undoubtedly obvious green tinge to his cheeks, which he quickly surprised.

Just as Kirk imagined, he turned around to see the emerald hue dissipate almost immediately from Spock's cheeks as he began to list of information about their next destination. Spock was pleasantly unaware of the faint green that remained at the point of his ears.

And Jim was quite all right with that.


	4. Hands

There was something to be said about James Tiberius Kirk. Actually, there were quite a few things that could be said of James Kirk; half of them grossly unpleasant, the other half flattering if not questionably based. Most were true, though.

To list only a small number;

He was intelligent. This was an obvious given, considering the fact that not only had he hacked the Kobiyasha Maru that Spock himself had programmed, but he could also rebuild a phazer, tell anyone just about anything about terran vehicles, could assist in repairing the transporter (Spock was beginning to think the object in question was faulty, because it malfunctioned far more than a transporter shoulder), as well as knew exactly what kind of attack was going on at Vulcan during the Narada Crisis.

He was good under pressure. Jim was one of those select few humans that, when under pressure metaphorically strong enough to crush a man, he was calmest, most levelheaded. In those times of lulling domesticity, he was antsy and irritable and in general an annoyance.

He also had sinfully beautiful (despite beauty's irrelevance) hands.

It was Spock's guilty pleasure, even if he would not admit it to himself. Their bi-weekly chess games were becoming more and more common among his other thoughts, and the thoughts of those chess games were…illogical. His reaction to Jim's hands were also illogical, though not inexplicable. To comment, stare at, or touch another's hands was viewed as lewd and shameful. But Spock was drawn to Jim's fingers like a bug's tendency to migrate towards light sources. The way Jim would over his index finger over a piece, just barely resting on top of it to move it side to side in thought. How he'd chew on his knuckle when Spock had began a strategically maneuver, occasionally baring his teeth around the joint when said maneuver was frustrating. The slow way he would sit back in his hair and run his fingers through his hair when he'd loose a third game—only a third game—keeping them tangled into the dirty blond mess and smiling at him. Occasionally, and though he would not let himself see it, Spock would reach to offer assistance in a move just so Jim would grab his wrist and push his hand back—that was the worst of his sins of logic. He knew that small touch meant nothing to Jim, he also knew to allow himself to execute an action merely to rouse a particular response was pointless in this particular instance; as well as to mention said act one quite erotic to Vulcans. Every time it occurred, a type of warm spread straight up his arm and into his body, curling and twisting in his veins like fire, before settling as a pleasant pressure in his lower stomach.

How shameful, he scolded himself each time. But he could not bring himself to stop. No amount of meditation, no amount of self-degradation, and no amount of wishing it would stop (despite it's uselessness, because wishing gets no one anywhere, work does), it didn't, it wouldn't, and he couldn't. He would lay at night and rouse to uncomfortable sensations, and vague memory of those long, thin fingers in places he should not be imagining them. He would sit for hours in a meditative state, trying to concentrate, and be no closer to calmness than when he began. He settled for repression and exposure, allowing himself to continue to experience it in attempt to become accustomed and unaffected by it.

But he knew that, two, was merely a delusion.

So he deluded himself every Tuesday and Thursday evening at 19.00. He deluded himself into thinking he really did desire to assist Jim in learning more tactical maneuvers, not wanted his hand to be brushed. He deluded himself that he was not watching Jim's hands because they were erotic, but that he was merely observing human behavior in competitive instances. This went on for three months, until he could delude himself no longer.

He would not be able to delude himself he had not just made a noise, when the Captain grabbed his wrist for the third time that evening. He would not be able to persuade his Captain that the noise was of pain, not pleasure, and he knew it when those blue eyes snapped up to him. He was caught, he would be punished, the embarrassment, the shame. Panic, a long-forgotten poison began to surface. His Captain knew, he knew. He knew.

"Shit, Spock, I'm sorry." Jim abruptly let him go, smiling warily. "That's like the fifth time I've done that. Did I grab you to hard? I keep forgetting the whole 'me and my personal space bubble' thing."  
Relief.

Spock withdrew his hand, looking back down and moving a rook to properly capture the queen of its enemy. "No apology is necessary, Captain. I have grown accustomed to your strange need for physical contact with your crew. I merely ask you do try and keep it to a possible minimum with myself."

"Sure thing, I'll try and keep my hands to my self." He could hear the grin in Kirk's voice, and only graced him with a brief glance.

He really hoped the Captain would do no such thing.


	5. Back

It was a touch that, even in his Vulcan sensitivity, he had become accustomed to; which was curious, because that would imply that it happened more often then almost any other physical contact he had been exposed to.

Surprisingly, it had.

Every shift, every hour, very nearly on the hour. On specifically deviant days, it happened more than once within the hour; a brief, though somehow equally lingering touch of a hand, right between his scapulae. It was always warm, which was still very thought-provoking in seeing his body temperature was still the highest on the ship, and it was always Captain Kirk.

Sometimes he didn't say anything, he merely laid his hand their on his back while passing his station. Sometimes he stopped to watch him work (presumably). Other times he would crouch beside him and talking to him, still others he would inquire an analysis on the surrounding planets, or their current destinations…or merely just converse. But each time there was that warm hand heavy for a moment between his scapulae, and every time Spock attempted to read what the touch would let him. The hand was always removed at the most opportune time, just as he could sense a type of warmness that had nothing to do with temperature spread through the connection his touch-telepathy would allow; no more was ever gathered. He supposed the Captain either understood the touch telepathy, and briefly forgot it until the contact was made, or had forgotten it completely and merely rested his hand their to let him know of his presence—both equally likely, considering the Captain was quite 'touchy-feely' as Doctor McCoy had explained it.

This was his thought process for quite some time, until one Gamma-shift when it was merely him and the Captain returning to quarters after their own shifts were finished.

They were in the turbo lift, and there was a brief pause, the lights flickered, then went out mid-floor. This, consequently, cause the lift to stop. Beside him, Jim let out a long, dramatic sigh.

"You know, I'm really starting to think this bullshit only ever happens to us."  
"It does seem to be statistically higher a rate of deviant occurrences that occur to our crew."

"So you've noticed too?"  
"I have."

He felt Jim shift to lean, pressing, presumably, the Com button. "Kirk to Scotty, come in Scotty." Silence. "Scotty, come in." More silence. "Damn. Think we could do manual?"  
"The lift would still requite electricity, which we seem to lack."  
"…Is that a no?"  
"Yes, that is a no." He felt Jim shift again, and this time felt a warm hand on his back again as Jim leaned around him.  
"S'cuse me." He heard Jim fiddling with the manual over-ride, but was more focused on the still lingering hand. For a moment, a brief, curious moment, he let part of his walls down. A rush of foreign emotion sent a shock up his arm. Jim stiffened minutely, but not quick enough to take his hand away before the transfer was complete.

Lust, curiosity, vague anger, shock, and the beginnings of fear.

The hand was immediately gone, and there was a shuffle as Jim, probably, pressed himself against the wall as far as he could. Spock remained stationary, looking in the general direction. Then, of course, the back-up generator lights came on in that garish red, and he could see the true look of awkward shock on his captain's face.

"…Did you just—"  
"No need for alarm, Captain.

There was a very tense moment.

"Shit, Spock. Um. Look, I know th—"  
"No need for an apology, either, Captain." He looked over and they made eye contact. It took only a moment for Jim to relax, then his eyes opened a bit more than before, and Spock looked away. "The lift will not be operational until the standard electricity has been returned."  
"Right."  
"We have approximately fifteen point four seven minutes."

"Okay."

"This experience never happened, Captain."  
"Of course not."

They made that the very best moment that never happened, ever.


	6. Neck

Spock smelled like spring water and something floral. A clean, soft, oddly feminine scent that welcomed, enveloped, and consumed.

In times like this, with his face buried in the planes of Spock's neck, he really just took Spock in in every way presented. His nose would brush against a powerful, throbbing pulse, his tongue would dart out; trace warm, very Vulcan terrain that was drenched in sweat and tasted of salt, and a sharp bite of cologne. Strong muscles twisted, waxed and waned beneath an emerald blush. Prominent collarbones became dotted with angry green love marks; his Adam's apple would a moan. His shoulders would tense, his head would tilt back with a soft whisper of Jim's name on his lips. His pulse would skip when Jim found that place behind his ear and sucked on it.

Spock smelled like spring water, something floral, and Jim. Every night.

Spock stood straight like he had a pole shoved down his spine. His head sat atop his shoulders on a long, strong cylinder of muscle and gorgeous bone that left little to be desired. Funny thing was, he always laid very crooked. Oh sure, he'd fall asleep like a vampire in a coffin, but by morning—if for some miraculous reason Jim woke up first (That didn't happen much)—he was all over the bed. His legs were tangled in the sheets and one usually hung off—damn he was tall. His arms were either outspread, or one was, and the other was tucked under the pillow. He usually ended up on his stomach with his face towards Jim, but tilted back a bit, and he was as silent as he was when awake.

And damn him if those sheets were clear up to his shoulders. But that was okay.

Jim would lean and the first thing he would smell in the morning was a hot, heavy, strong wash of sweat, sleep, flora and spring water. And himself. Spock woke up like that every morning, with Jim's face rammed into the side of his neck.

Jim still refused to answer why it always ended up like that.

Spock was very, very intimidating when he was angry. It was often hard to tell when he was, considering it was masked by all different shades of 'holy fuck, I'm bored'. But Jim could tell. Jim could tell every time and, after his initial run-in with a pissed off Spock, he took caution.

Spock would clench his jaw, first, and that would tense a muscle in his neck that became somewhat visible, it stood out. Jim thought he knew the name at one point in his schooling career, but for the life of him the name escaped him. Spock would talk through his teeth, just barely, and would tilt his chin up to look down his nose at you. His Adam's apple would quiver as he talked, but only if you were looking for it would you notice. If he was just about ready to deck you, he'd tilt his head to the left, and the angry muscle would become more prominent. His shoulders would rise a bit, like he was curling in on himself (ready to pounce, Jim often imagined a puma to look similar). Jim could almost hear the sounds of bands being pulled to their edge, to their breaking point. But each of these movements escaped the new science officer, who was trying to, apparently, inform the first officer that no, that was a class A-6 planet, not a class E.

Jim stepped over to inform his first that he was needed for the landing party, just as Spock tilted his head to the left. The ensign looked thankful at his captain, because he thought it too.

Spock really was very intimidating.

Spock had this really ticklish spot on his neck, right above his collar bone. Sometimes at night, while Spock was sleeping, Jim would brush it with his fingers. It would wake him off course, but right before he came to full consciousness he'd bat at Jim like a child, and let out a soft flutter of laughter. Then it was gone, and the curious, awake eyes would meet him, and the smile would fade to total emptiness.

Then Jim would feather his fingers across that spot, and Spock would stiffen and take his hand, and move it away. Then inform him he was attempt to rest, and would be very grateful if Jim would refrain from touching him for the remainder of the night. Jim would just smile and say 'sure, Spock' and lean, kissing that spot, and feel the electricity he knew they both felt.

Then ten minutes later he'd brush it again to hear that laugh, because Spock had this really ticklish spot on his neck right above his collar bone.

Spock smelled of spring water, flora, and Jim. His neck was straight and stiff as a support pole. He was intimidating when he was angry, and had this silly little spot on his neck above his collarbone.

Jim smiled and bit his knuckle, realizing no one else in the universe knew that except him.


	7. Lips

Most human males were often placed in specific feature categories; that is how you tell them apart from females by sight. It was these specific gender categories Spock began to question minutely one evening while talking to Jim over a game of chess.

Human males often had narrower eyes; Jim's eyes were wide and bright. Human males often had a sharp, hard cheek line and jaw; Jim's cheeks were rounded very slightly, and softer in line. The largest difference, however, was the difference in his lips from the stereotypical male. This was a difference Spock had often encountered in their brief intimate periods where they had partaken in what was commonly referred to as 'making out.' Most human males' lips were narrower, thinner, more often pressed into a line. Jims lips were…not.

Human female lips were often full, and very soft. The lower lip was most often more full, plump than the upper lip, and was often pressed into a slight pucker. That description did no justice to Jim's lips. His lips were soft like satin, and full and red and round as the apples he seemed to miraculously always pull out of somewhere on the bridge. They were naturally pressed into a type of contemplative pout. At the moment, they were pressed into a more dejected, irate pout.

Spock had one again.

Jim was talking and watching the board, but for once Spock was almost not listening. He was talking about misuse of a knight, a folly in his own plan, and that he should be given another chance. Spock's mind was elsewhere, eyes focused on the lips that were moving and the warmth beyond.

Another difference in human males as apposed to human females was their sexual desires. They are most often perceived as thinking of it more often, and seeking it out actively throughout their high school and early university years. It was at this point that Spock decided Jim often made him think like a human teenaged boy.

He stood abruptly, shocking Jim out of his thoughtful tirade of 'how did you even get my bishop anyway' to look up at him.

"Yes, Mr. Spock?"

"Jim, may I speak freely?"  
"Of course Spock we're off the clock." He sat back in his chair, sliding an arm over the back and setting his feet apart, and quietly Spock wished Jim to please put his knees together. "Shoot."  
"I have a request."  
"Well, shoot." He waved the hand hanging into his lap, drawing Spock's attention only briefly away from his lips to his thigh, then it returned to it's original study.

"I have come to the conclusion that you talk far to often, for far to long." Jim stared at him, then snorted.  
"Pardon?"  
"Because of this problematic behavior, I have thought of a solution to correct it."

"…Have you now." Jim shifted forward, throwing his weight onto the balls off his feet and with it stood up. "Want to tell me what that is, Spock?" The words blurted out of his mouth before he could stop them, which frightened him a little, though he would not admit, because that never happened (and would never happen again).

"Come to bed with me."

There was a heavy silence in the air that lasted to long to stay just a pause. Spock looked down at his feet, then back up again. Jim's lips were now quite a wicked grin.

"Sounds like fun."  
"I do advise you to cease talking. I have a much better use for your lips than for making vowels and consonants."

(Sorry for the Delay guys. 3 )


	8. Tongue

Song: 'Once Upon a December.' This was inspired by it, I dont know why. Song (c) Whoever.

-.-.-

There were so many things that could be done with one's tongue. One could sing, one could talk, one tasted, ate, and in human's cases, often kissed with them. Most of which, Jim knew very well Spock could do with grace and elegance no man should possess.

Spock could talk for hours, and either say absolutely nothing at all, or say something that could change the world. His words were often so huge Jim had to look them up after a lengthy conversation. His topics were always correct, precise, and relevant. His voice was deep, and almost monotone, even when his eyes and body actions betrayed his nervousness, anger, or obvious frustration in a situation. It was tempered, soft, making you really listen so you catch everything mentioned. Like velvet.

Jim swung in his chair to face the science station, where his companion was sat, hunched over the console and, talking oddly enough, to himself, or to the Yeomen near him, about something in his reports. He knew, despite the Vulcan's 'lack of favorite'-ing things, Spock's favorite food was Pollack soup; which really made absolutely no sense, because Pollack soup was probably one of the worst tasting things Jim himself had ever experienced. Something akin to water, with salt, and some broccoli juice in it or something. He shivered thinking about it, but shook it off. So, Spock's talking was gorgeous, his taste in food wasn't, but not everyone was perfect.

Spock came pretty damn close though.

Jim smiled as Spock stood up, leaning over to the yeoman to check her records on the data paDD she held. His smile turned into a slow, fox-ish grin. Kissing was definitely something Spock's tongue made up for for liking Pollack soup. His tongue was rougher than Jims in an almost feline way, soft one way, prickly the other. His body temperature was greatly elevated, so when that rough tongue coaxed it's way past Jim's lips, it filled his mouth with a warm, hot sweetness that turned Jim's knees into jello. It was as curious as it's Master, winding around his mouth to map every tooth, ever crevice between, and ever inch of his own tongue before it was satisfied. And if that wasn't enough, he always tasted of candy, always, like a type of hard-caramel, maybe butterscotch. It was incredibly bizarre to think about, but made Jim's heart flutter and blood rush from places it should be to places it really shouldn't, not on the bridge.

He turned back around abruptly, staring out the view screen with forced determinism. Forced became natural determinism, when the first of his list had not been checked off. He shifted in his seat, crossing his arms. Spock, singing. Did Vulcans sing? They had to sing, if a person had a voice box, they could sing, right? What if Spock couldn't carry a tune in a bucket? What if Spock couldn't carry a tune in a boat? Or, or, he thought to himself, what if he had the voice of an angel? What if he could be the next Popstar? Had Spock ever tried singing before? Of course, he knew music well. He played the Lyre. But did that mean he could sing? He made a mental note to ask tonight when their shifts ended.

And he did, as they were changing into their sleeping attire. He brought it up casually, halfway between 'how did your shift go' and 'have you seen my Riverside High shirt?' Spock had stopped moving, and it wasn't a pause, but a long, frowning, deep-in-thought stop with his arms in a funny position to pull his shirt on. 'Yes,' he finally offered cryptically, then finished with his shirt. Jim inquired further, and was shot down every time until he went to their shared closet and produced the golden instrument. 'It is illogical,' Spock responded, which Jim said he'd already had the lyre out anyway, why not. Spock seemed satisfied with that response and took the instrument, plucking it to tune, before he started a song that all but shocked Jim off his feet. It was a song he hadn't heard on a string before, but Spock played it in a way that made it both exotic and familiar. Before he began to sing, Spock clarified that his mother used to sing the song when she was gardening sometimes, switching between it and other songs. But this particular song had stuck with him, and reminded him much of the scent of red roses during summer. Jim sat down, letting Spock begin with a gaping mouth.

"Dancing bears,  
Painted wings,  
Things I almost remember,  
And a song someone sings  
Once upon a December.

Someone holds me safe and warm.  
Horses prance through a silver storm.  
Figures dancing gracefully  
Across my memory.

Someone holds me safe and warm.  
Horses prance through a silver storm.  
Figures dancing gracefully  
Across my memory."

It was one of those moments, watching Spock watch his own hands flit across metal strings, that Jim knew would be so imprinted into his brain he'd take it to his grave. It was gorgeous, a soft tenor, quiet enough to presume nervousness but not so quite one assumed the singer was meek. Tuned, soft as silk, right on cue, Spock took the song and wove a blanket with it that wrapped itself around Jim so tightly that it warmed him, even after the lyre was put away and the lights were out, even after he fell asleep and woke up again, he felt a buzzing in the back of his head that went to an ancient tune, that a mother unconsciously taught to her son, and her son unconsciously taught to a man.

During their next shift, when the bridge was near-bare and it was just Jim, Uhura, Spock and two navigators, Jim heard a soft humming behind him and smiled to himself. He found the tune and hummed along, hearing it pause for a moment and feeling eyes on the back of his head, before the tune continued and they had their own private, quiet duet.

Singing, Jim decided on his mental check-list, was something else Spock's tongue could help him do quite well.


	9. Wrists

Decided to give up on trying to make these seem in Numerical Order. So, I'll just write them as they come to me. Im sorry if the time jumps mess people up. );

It was a re-occurring event. Go to planet giving us electrical problems, meet savage genius inhabitants, be captured, be shackled, main villainous can't be deterred from Jim's devilishly good looks, defeat them, escape. Happened all the time. Like, once every other mission. Almost like clockwork.

It was getting annoying.

Jim usually came out of it with little to no scarring. He was slight, narrow shoulders with wider hips than he'd admit to; thin arms, thin legs, but strong enough to really pack a punch if he needed to. He didn't really realize that others...weren't always so lucky. Like Spock. His Spock.

He had weaseled his way next to his bedmate while he slept, awake from probably to many coffees on the bridge. The long arm that wrapped unconsciously around him slumped over his shoulder, hanging the large hand in his face. Jim smiled, debated on being mean and licking his fingers. But something else caught his eye, even in the dark. One line, across the edge of his companions wrist. Curious as he was known for, he gently shifted to lay on his back. The arm now rested on his chest and he could see it better.

It wasn't one line, it was multiple. He frowned to himself, reaching out to gently run his hand along one. Not lines, he came to realize. Scars, newer and old, from the not so few times Jim had gotten them into innumerable disasters. From protecting his Captain, then protecting his lover. From self sacrifice, from forced sacrifice, and probably one or two fights he may have started on behalf of a crew member. His finger rounded his Ulna and slipped to the underside of the wrist, and the man beside him shuddered. Jim froze and held his breath, but all Spock did was take a slow breath and roll over, sliding his arm out from under Jim's neck as he did. Jim stared at the sleeping man's back, eyes mixed with a strange swirl of concern, and affection.

That morning, Jim made certain to wake up early. Even waking up early, he was barely able to get up in time to catch Spock as he walked out the door.

"Yes, Jim?" Spock sat beside him, dressed, showered and smelling like fauna.

"You've never shown me these." He took his hand gently, careful, and turned it over. He pushed the striped sleeve covering the marks up, and they both stared down at...nothing. No scars. No raised marks of battery. Nothing. Just soft, pristine white skin, with a hint of mint green. Spock looked away from his wrist in confusion, though hid it well. Jim turned the wrist over, and over, back and forth. "But...but the scars. I felt them. When you were still asleep..."

"Jim, are you sure you are feeling sufficient?"  
"I was awake half the night looking at them." Jim looked up at him. "Where did they go?"  
"I believe you were dreaming, Jim." Spock leaned and kissed him, chaste and swift. "You will be late." And Jim was left alone with that, staring at his now empty hand.

Only after he made it to the bridge, and stared at the view screen for a while at empty space, did he have a realization.

They had never been captured, they had never been shackled. They had only been in operation four months. A smile slipped onto his face, and he settled into his seat.

Protecting his Captain, protecting his lover. Self sacrifice, forced sacrifice. All scars on clean wrists. The vision of what was to come settled into his mind like warm sheets out of the dryer. And when those scars began to accumulate on his First Officer, Jim's wrists would match with gusto.


End file.
